


I got attached

by marieincolour



Category: White Collar
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marieincolour/pseuds/marieincolour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I still don't understand why a three year old needs all these presents,” Peter calls from the living room, and she can hear him cursing as he steps on pine needles and perhaps the chips from those porcelain bells “it's not like he's going to get to use all of these.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Hm,” she replies, because while she was all kinds of optimistic that they'd get their regular Neal back, there hasn't been a single thread of hope in the last four weeks of waiting. </i>
</p>
<p>Ficlet in which Neal is unexpectedly three years old, and it's Christmas. <br/>White Collar H/C advent 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I got attached

**Author's Note:**

> This is my work for the White Collar H/C advent 2014. It was supposed to be a lot longer. Also plottier and less rambly, but it's... Not. 
> 
> Merry Christmas?

They're still waiting for the curse to break or for Mozzie to find a fix-all, and pretty soon things will be back to normal. She shouldn't get attached. It will only hurt her in the end. She really should distance herself, she thinks, and readjusts the warm bundle in her arms as she turns the corner into their guest room. 

Neal is breathing hot little puffs of air against her neck, his thumb lodged firmly in his mouth and the white, soft bunny they haven't been able to pry away from him for days clutched between his flannel footie-pajamas and El's stained t-shirt. 

His hair is still damp, curling up at the ends. It's going to be an absolute mess in the morning, she knows, but somehow that messy head of curls work when the owner is a three year old kid. 

He snuffles a little, and turns to his side as she puts him down, pulling the covers up and readjusting the pillows they've got lining the bed in case he falls out – again. 

Their living room is a mess of toy cars and stuffed animals, left haphazardly on the floor because while El could probably fit a couple boxes of toys in somewhere neat and practical, this is just a temporary thing. Just for a couple weeks, really. 

She picks up the socks that got wet when Neal and Peter went out before dinner, rolls them up and throws them into the little hamper of dirty clothes that's waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. It's steadily filling up with little cotton and jersey garments, most of them with sticky lunch and dinner-residue decorating the front, and dust and doggie-hair covering the rest.

“Peter?” she calls, turning just in time to realise that he's right behind her, reaching to grab the little plate of uneven cookies and lukewarm milk left on a little table next to their little Christmas tree. It makes her smile every time she looks at it, homemade decorations of colourful paper and their old, carefully chosen pieces hung crookedly and at such a low height that you'd think Satchmo had decorated this year. There's nearly nothing on the back of the tree, either, and at least two of her mother's old porcelain bells are chipped.

“Sorry,” she mutters, laughing and leaning in for a hug. “I'll finish up in the kitchen if you go down into the basement and get the presents.”

It's a raw deal on her part, because the kitchen wears the evidence of spaghetti dinner and attempts at cookie baking. Greasy, grubby fingermarks mark the lower parts of their cabinets and drawers, a mix of flour and milk and melted chocolate chips “jus testin'em, miss 'lizabeth,” that are almost impossible to wash away with a simple cloth. 

“I still don't understand why a three year old needs all these presents,” Peter calls from the living room, and she can hear him cursing as he steps on pine needles and perhaps the chips from those porcelain bells “it's not like he's going to get to use all of these.”

“Hm,” she replies, because while she was all kinds of optimistic that they'd get their regular Neal back, there hasn't been a single thread of hope in the last four weeks of waiting. “Well, if he doesn't we'll give it all away to charity. How's that?” She rinses the last of the tomato sauce from a plastic bowl with Daniel Tiger waving happily from the bottom, and sets it aside to dry. “And anyway, he'll enjoy them tomorrow.”

She doesn't quite know when she started trusting that there would be a tomorrow with the tiny, chattering Neal that keeps climbing into her lap and hiding his face against her neck like she's the only thing that'll keep him safe, but she supposes this isn't quite what Peter meant when he said not to get too attached. It's an old grief, but it feels torn-open and fresh all over again. 

They clean up the living room just in time for the evening news, the stockings hung on the fireplace and little santas and red bows decorating just about everything in sight. She's adjusted the ornaments on their half-bald Christmas tree, and hidden the awful Robot-toy that sings and shoots lasers that Mozzie dropped off earlier, which Neal loves but Peter despises, and the space underneath the tree is full of cheerfully coloured gifts – too many of them for a version of Neal they don't know if they're going to get to keep. 

But they wake up to the pitter-patter of tiny, socked feet in the upstairs hallway, and before either of them can do much more than lean up on their elbows, a blur of pale blue flannel and white bunny-fuzz and brown curls has hurled himself onto their bed, eyes shining with excitement and hands flailing in all directions as he tells about all the things Santa did when he came in the night. 

He refuses to walk down the stairs on his own, and Peter carries him down on his hip. He clutches Peter's shoulder in one hand, and the bunny in the other, eyes the size of dinner plates. He tears off all the wrapping paper El carefully wrapped everything in just two days ago, and then proceeds rolls around in the wreckage, before falling deeply asleep on the couch with a pile of toy cars and at least three christmas bows, one porcelain bell and a brand new book about puppies trapped between himself and the couch cushions.

“Peter,” she says, leaning against him, feeling itchy with tiredness from the early morning and the late night before. Three eggs are clattering around in the pot on the stove, and coffee is burbling cheerfully. “I got attached.”


End file.
